


Call it a Fallacy

by inquisitioned



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Bond!AU, M/M, fake boyfriends fic, stiles is a smarty pants, the sheriff is having none of this shit, what am i doing how do I write from derek's point of view
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-25
Updated: 2013-02-25
Packaged: 2017-12-03 15:33:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/699796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inquisitioned/pseuds/inquisitioned
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Or, five times Agent Alpha and Agent Q kissed, and one time Derek and Stiles did.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Call it a Fallacy

**1.**  
    The first kiss was for Stiles’ dad, who looked a mix between frazzled and unsurprised when Stiles returned to Beacon Hills—“permanently”, he’d told his dad over the phone, which was code for “I’m on a mission and they brought me here”, but the Sheriff seemed glad to hear it all the same—with his hand in Derek Hale’s front pocket. As far as anyone who hadn’t been briefed on the mission knew, Stiles Stilinski and Derek Hale were moving back to their childhood home after a successful courtship that ended in an engagement. They met on their work sites, Stiles would tell everyone who asked, because he worked for Geek Squad and Derek was hapless with a computer (untrue—just with Facebook.), and they hit it off from there.   
  
To his credit, Agent Alpha, as annoying and “”dark”” and all around Scruffy, metaphorically and physically, could be, he was a stunning actor. He led Stiles around with his hand on the small of his back, held his hand when the moment was right, called his name softly and lent him his coat. He pulled off the part of loving husband with aplomb, albeit gruffly, and you could color Stiles impressed. He was pretty sure the guy wasn’t capable of  _emotion,_ let alone of pretending to have it. And unable to resist a quip at the worst and the best of times, as Derek wrapped his leather jacket around Stiles’ shoulder, he looked to the side and drawled, “Thanks, honey.”  
  
“No problem, babe.” His response was dry, and the only reaction of amusement was a twitch at the side of his mouth—Stiles grinned, all teeth, and threw open the door to the old Stilinski household. He introduced Derek, who still had their fingers laced together as he reached out with his other hand to shake the Sheriff’s, even looking appropriately nervous to be meeting his fiance’s father.   
  
The look on his dad’s face, however, was all disbelief, and so Stiles thought without really thinking, turned his head, and pressed a little kiss to Derek’s mouth. It lasted barely a second, and he grinned at his dad questioningly, please God don’t ask anything, but the Sheriff just sighed and stepped out of the doorway.   
  
He knew his dad could tell they were faking it. If anyone in Beacon Hills knew Stiles well enough to call him on a lie, it was his dad.

(The fact that he acted like he believed it meant the world and made his heart wrench at the same time.) 

  
  
 **2.**

  
The second kiss was on New Year’s Eve, surrounded by friends in town. They’d already settled into life in Beacon Hills—Derek took on a badge test and passed with flying colors (naturally) and Stiles slid into the desk behind the Sheriff’s Department like it was his home. They made enough friends that way that they were invited to a company New Year’s party, where they drank and ate and socialized, and Stiles greeted their neighbor with a smile and toasted her glass with his (really, she was his type, with strawberry blonde curls and a mouth curved into a perfect pout), but it was Derek who was there at midnight, and he gave up his first New Year’s kiss to the brush of stubble and a mouth that he was in imaginary love with.   
  
It was a little longer than the first kiss, a little sweeter, a little softer. Derek kissed like it was real and Stiles kissed like it was real, and no one had to know it was fake, no one  _could_ have known it was fake. They were getting better at this, meshing together and arguing playfully and walking their dog in the mornings hand in hand as dusk settled over Beacon Hills.   
  
Four months until the Argent rendevouz, he thought. I can do this. 

 

 **3.**    
The third, he and Derek were running. It had been a simple recon mission—scope out the mansion where the Argents were hosting their party, find the three best escape routes. But Stiles was not a field agent, Stiles had never been a field agent, and his own curiosity had led him to kick a trip wire that set off the loudest alarm he’d ever heard. There was shouting from down the hall, and he and Derek both turned and ran, dashing out of the mansion itself and in to the dark, menacing woods that surrounded it. It was a good place for hiding, a good place to get lost in, and Stiles started mentally cataloging every different way to go and how much time it might take them—abruptly, he registered their feet slamming into the still damp mud and kicked a pile of leaves over their path.   
  
“Stiles—” Derek had started and Stiles couldn’t think of that now, couldn’t think of whatever stupid plan Derek was going to come up with that probably involved him throwing himself into the line of fire—he saw an opening and his mind snared onto it like catching a rat in a trap, and he pushed Derek behind a tree, grabbed him by the shirt lapels, and Derek was suddenly doing the rest, like they were on the same wavelength, meeting halfway in a crushing, fast kiss. Derek’s arm came up above his head, pinning him in place, and Stiles’ hands drifted from his lapels to around his neck, fingers latching on like a lifeline to his shoulders as he opened his mouth into the kiss, meeting him with a noise and all the energy he could muster. Behind them, there were footsteps, shouting—someone might have peeked in on them, or something, and turned away with a noise, but as far as Stiles cared, his hands had come up to Derek’s hair and  _tugged_  and Derek’s teeth grazed against his lower lip. 

The Argent men had been gone for a full ten minutes before Stiles finally tore away, before Derek pushed backwards, straightened his stupid leather jacket like nothing had ever happened, and briskly made his way back through the woods with Stiles to follow. 

He could feel the phantom pull of his teeth for a few days afterwards—could see it in his dreams for a week. 

 

**4.**

The fourth kiss was more awkward than the first two combined—there were kids outside waiting for the bus, and Derek was off to work on Stiles’ day off, so he’d foolhardily rushed up and kissed him once on the bow of his lips like it was a goodbye. Only half of it was for show, and Stiles shut the door in his face afterwards, jittery and confused as to why for the first time since they’d started sharing a bed, he rolled over and pressed his face against Derek’s chest and didn’t move—and woke up with Derek’s arm around his shoulders. 

 

**5.**

The fifth kiss was so terrifyingly real that it braced against Derek’s senses and nearly threw him for a loop. One minute, he’d been in the Camaro, and the next, a black SUV slammed into the driver’s side door and he was in the hospital. The nurse, bless her heart, turned out to be the mother of another agent in their organization, and she was quick to dispense pain meds as well as not question where he’d been going, and in fact, come up with a wonderful cover story as to why he’d been out at two AM on a Sunday evening. It was something he could numbly repeat back to the police (although the Sheriff would never find anything, it was good of him to try) while his head throbbed and his stomach churned with the screaming pain of a concussion and all he could do was lay back and enjoy the extra strength morphine Melissa put him on until he felt conscious enough to eat something.   
  
It was after a fever induced sleep that he woke up and Stiles was there—the banging sound that snapped him out of his dream was in fact the agent stumbling through the doorway. He looked at Derek for just half a second like he was made of  _gold_ , and suddenly, Stiles was across the room, his hands were on Derek’s face, and he was kissing him, slow, easy,  _desperate._ It ached so badly of worry and pain that he could feel it in his bones, and he brought up a hand to rest on the small of Stiles’ back, letting him cradle his face and anchor him there, dizziness and nausea barely a hum in the background, as he dropped his morphine hazed attention directly on Stiles.   
  
He berated him for about ten minutes about awful driving habits afterwards—either a farce or just Stiles being  _Stiles_ —and then, quietly asked him about the car when everyone had left.   
  
Derek realized later that night, when he was staring at the ceiling and waiting for the next morphine dose to kick in, that Agent Q had gone from Agent Q in his head, to “kid”, to  _Stiles._

It was the last thing on his mind as he dozed off, and the first thing when he woke up again in the morning. Just another month. He could do this. 

 

**+1:**

Everything had gone to hell when they saw Kate Argent. One moment, Derek had his wits about him, cool, calm, collected, and the next Kate was there, smiling at him (the same face she’d made so many years ago, like a  _shark_ _,_ and he had been the dumb surfer with his feet hanging off the board), and he’d tightened his grip on Stiles’ arm so hard he felt his knuckles go white. They exchanged pleasantries. She cocked her head to Stiles and it made him angrier, made him want to grab her by the throat and throw her across the room, break her into pieces the way she’d shattered and ruined his life with pretty honey curls and an act he fell for so hard he hated himself for it to this day. 

He wouldn’t get the chance until about a week later. 

Derek had come home to the house in ruins, the dog lying wheezing and whimpering from the force of a taser, and a box of matches spread out across the front foyer—the only sign that Stiles had been there at all. He was  _gone,_ kidnapped, and the matches were his sign of who exactly had done it. 

It took him two days to track their hiding spot, and another six hours to find the holding cell in the basement. Twenty minutes to subdue Kate. (One punch across the face—for Stiles. One to the gut, for his dog.) And two minutes to make a decision, to put the gun up to her forehead and pull the trigger. (For his family.)   
  
“Jesus.” Stiles’ voice echoed from the little cell he was being kept it, and it was enough to knock Derek out of staring down at Kate, at his entire past just dropped to the floor and never to rise up again, and almost automatically he took the three steps across the way to the door, tugging it open with the key he’d grabbed off of Kate Argent’s dead body and dropped down in front of Stiles, using them to unlock the handcuffs. He was a mess to say the least—there was dried blood caked on his face and he had an impressive black eye, but Derek’s quick scan of his body showed nothing broken or maimed, and as he dropped the hand holding up the cuffs, Stiles pulled his away and rubbed his wrists, and Derek caught his cheeks in his hands, thumbing across the purplish bruise under his eye. Stiles had been blabbering up until that point, talking about what happened to him and how long he’d been waiting, but Derek had been tuning him out, until, finally, he murmured, “Derek—Derek, dude. I’m okay. I’m so beyond okay. It’s nothing I can’t take care of with a good old fashioned bag of frozen peas—”  
  
“Stiles.” Derek cut him off—for some reason, and why, Derek couldn’t put a name on it—but there was a moment, just a second, like a bow that was strung and hasn’t been pulled, and suddenly both he and Stiles moved forward and he cupped his face in his hands and pulled Stiles in for a kiss.  It was something, something different than the others, full of worry and relief, and Stiles responded back to him like a spring, heart thumping hard where his fingers were pressed against his pulse, his hands mirroring Derek’s own, until it felt like everything, everything that had just transpired was actually over and done. Stiles was safe, and he’d not realized when Stiles’ own safety became so damn integral, but he was safe, and Kate hadn’t taken him away like she’d done to everything else.   
  
When he finally managed to pull away, Stiles chased him, two faster, little kisses, each one more than the last, and his hand settled against the back of Derek’s neck, as he mumbled, his mouth breaking into a bright, wide toothed grin, “Thanks for saving me,  _babe.”_  
  
”You’re an ass.” Derek murmured in response, hopelessly charmed. “But you’re welcome, _honey_.”   
  
The laugh that came out of his mouth was bright and startled, and Derek helped him to his feet, helped him back to their little stone flat in the middle of a town they hadn’t called home in years, and took that little thing that had been fake and made a silent promise to make it real. 


End file.
